


Elysian Dreams

by author_morgan



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Titanic AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 00:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30114081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/author_morgan/pseuds/author_morgan
Summary: Arthur Morgan saves your life in more than just one way and manages to steal your heart while he’s at it too. Inspired by Titanic.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	Elysian Dreams

IT IS A GRAND ship, a ship of dreams some say. The RMS _Elysian_ stands tall and pristine against the blighted waters and soot-filled air of Southampton. Black-and-white with towering red smokestacks, the shining jewel of the Green Star Line. The carriage door swings open, and dread fills the pit of your stomach. To you, the _Elysian_ is more a cage than a vessel to freedom and opportunity. Even still, you cannot deny the splendor as you move toward the gangway, boarding pass in hand with your father trailing but a few steps behind. Your eyes flit up the steel hull to the railings of the lowest deck. They claim she is unsinkable, that not even God himself could force the liner to the bottom of the Atlantic —it only sounds as though they are tempting the Almighty with a challenge.

“Come, dear girl,” your father says, breaking you from a despairing trance as he motions for you to join him on board —his pass already handed over to the ostiary and a steward assigned to escort you both to a stateroom. Each step tightens the unseen shackles on your wrists and ankles. Gone shall be the days of autonomy.

Rucksack thrown over his shoulder, Arthur Morgan pushes through the crowd of people waiting to see the ship leave port and wave goodbye to friends and family and toward the pier. “Moron,” he shouts over his shoulder to the red-headed Irish man following close on heel, “bettin’ the goddamn tickets like that.” The tickets sweetened the pot of coin and jewels at a local pub, but with a keen eye and a bit of counting, they were back safely in hand after one last round of blackjack. 

“Won ‘em back, didn’t I?” Sean defends, words slurring from an early morning stout. He shifts the weight of his pack, holding the green bowler hat close to his head as he keeps pace with Arthur, the third-class aft terminal for the lowest deck in view.

They reach the bottom of the ramp just as it slowly begins retracting from the open door as the first wisps of black smoke start rising from the smokestacks as the _Elysian’s_ whistles resound across the harbor. “Won’t do no good if the damn boat leaves without us!” Arthur snaps, sliding between two barricades and past the longshoreman turning the crank for the gangway, calling for them wait —waving his boarding pass overhead. 

Both Sean and Arthur remain on deck even after the last glimpse of land fades into the horizon, watching the people of different classes pass to-and-fro on the upper decks and promenades, oblivious to everything and everyone outside of their own bubbles. “Oi, English!” Sean says, waving his hand in front of Arthur’s face, trying to break him from the intense reverie. 

It doesn’t work. Arthur’s gaze remains focused on the upper deck and the lone lady holding onto the rails looking out over the horizon —a beauty in a white-and-green dress with the poise of royalty. She scans over the lower decks, and for the briefest of moments, their eyes meet, and the world around them stops moving until Sean elbows him, shaking his head. “Forget it. You’re as like to have pigs fly out your arse as get next to the likes o’her.” And while Sean may be right, Arthur can’t help but slip back into his wistful thoughts as he looks at the open journal on his thigh. 

* * *

THE DINNER IS only a reflection of what the rest of your days entail upon returning to New York. A monotonous life filled with the same painted faces and inconsequential babbling and an endless parade of extravagant parties and cotillions. A life many dreamt of attaining —all failing to see the hollowness lurking beneath the silver-plated flatware and latest fashions until it is too late. 

You stare down at the plate set before you some time ago, feeling your stomach churn at the thought of taking a bite from the roast lamb soaked in a heavy cream sauce. Several of the table-guests voice their concern —commenting on the pallor of your cheeks and the far-off look in your eyes— but it is not until your father lays his hand atop yours that you retreat from your thoughts and back into the moment. “Are you all right, dear?” He asks, oblivious to the battle raging between your mind and heart.

Nodding with a slight smile, you quickly compose yourself even though it’s increasingly difficult to breathe —like a crushing weight set upon your chest, trapping you in this life. “Yes,” you assure him, voice trailing off, “I just need some fresh air.” Excusing yourself from the meal, you rise, smoothing down the heavily embellished indigo skirt of your gown before winding between the other tables to the exit of the first-class saloon.

The door of your stateroom clicks shut, and the façade shatters as you press your back against the door, chest heaving as you tear off the white elbow gloves. _You’re trapped_. The pearl necklace starts to feel like a noose as you pace the center of the room. Hands shaking, you fumble with the clasp, failing thrice. With a primal, anguished cry, you claw at your neck, pulling at the necklace until it explodes —sending a hundred pearls rolling across the floor. _Trapped_ , the voice says as you reach for the line of buttons at the back of the dinner gown, unable to reach them without a lady’s maid. _No way out_. You look at your tear-clouded reflection in the vanity mirror and hear a whisper of a voice telling you there _is_ a way out.

Arthur lights a cigarette, kicking back in one of the benches at the stern, watching the stars blaze overhead as he exhales a cloud of smoke —always seemed odd to him how clear the night sky could look after a storm. His thoughts lost in what lay in store next for himself and the Van der Linde gang now that the Pinkerton’s lost their scent for good after a mutual parlay for good deeds done in West Elizabeth. The trip to England had only been to tie up loose ends, cement a new chapter in everyone’s lives. Hearing something, he rouses, searching the aft, and finds a woman clinging to the flagpole, sobbing.

You stare into the dark water, transfixed by the lure of freedom it offers. In a daze, you step up to the taffrail, fingers curling around the cool metal before you begin to climb —clumsily with the skirt of your gown catching on your heels. “I wouldn’t do that, ma’am,” a low voice calls, the words warped with a southern drawl. It’s too late. Your feet are on the gunwale as you lean over the black abyss like a reverse figurehead, just far enough to watch the propellers churn the Atlantic into white foam —a ghostly wake trailing off toward the horizon.

“Why do you presume to tell me what to do?” You ask, leaning further out, arms straightening —hypnotized by the vortex. The only sound above the rush of water below is the flutter and snap of the Union Jack. All that’s left to do is fall but letting go is both the easiest and hardest thing to do. Instead, you gape into the dark water and night. 

“Jus’ don’t wanna see you slip–” he spares a glance at the gown, a short train wrapped around one of your ankles and beneath the slick bottom of a pair of dress heels, it’s a miracle you still had any footing on the deck at all “–otherwise honor would demand me jump in after you.” 

You shake your head. “I don’t want anyone to come after me.” The words are strangled and come out like a broken plea. 

He rests against the taffrail next to you, one brow raised. “That bad, huh?” His rough voice is sincere —he doesn’t see you as a poor little rich girl, but someone driven to a breaking point where there only feels like one way to escape. You shift, looking at the man whose hand is just brushing yours. He’s a blur with the tears lingering in your eyes. Wiping away the dampness with a shaky hand, you quickly return to gripping the cold metal railing, focusing on the strange man with sparkling blue-green eyes fate has led you to. 

”Promise what’s down there is worse,” he remarks, staring down into the dark waters. He’s felt the cold bite of frozen waters before, knows it feels like a thousand knives stabbing all over until the paralyzing numbness takes over. You look down again —the reality of what you’re doing setting in; the height suddenly becomes terrifying instead of liberating. “Listen,” he starts, tentatively brushing his hand over yours, grasping onto it and the rail —anchoring you to this life and the desire to live, “we don’t know each other, but if you jump, then I _am_ gonna jump in after you.” 

You glimpse him again before looking down at the harrowing distance between you and the depths below, aghast by his determination to see you down safely from this precipice. “Why don’t you jus’ give me your hand so I can help you back over?” You nod, relenting to his gentle command, heart racing as you unfasten one hand from the rail, reaching around toward him. He takes it firmly, helping you turn back to face him instead of the water. “Arthur Morgan,” he says with a crooked, relieved smile —a charming sight that sets your heart aflutter with something more than fear. Another moment passes before you begin ascending the railing. Arthur keeps a hand on yours as he watches your footing, not daring to let go now. 

His arm moves around your waist as you cross over the taffrail, easing you back to the deck. The train of your gown twists beneath your foot and shaky knees send you forward into Arthur’s chest with a startled gasp —catching him off guard. He steadies you with two strong hands on your waist. Against his warmth, you realize how cold you are without a shawl or coat, the damp night air making way for a chill to settle deep into your bones. Stepping back, Arthur eases off his worn tan wool-and-leather topcoat from, draping it around your shoulders —it leaves him in only a thin and stained blue cotton button-up. 

Sitting on one of the stern benches, Arthur crouches in front of you, resting one hand on your knee. “Do I get to know your name, miss?” He asks, the same charming, almost boyish, smile appearing on his lips again. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you look at him, as though you’re just now seeing him for the first time —his strong jaw and sharp features are offset by the honey-brown hair framing his face, his gaze kind and focused wholly on you. Breathless, you give him your name.

“I–” your eyes flick up from him and to the stars above as your voice trails off, “I should go back.” The last thing you want is for your father to send a search party to find you in _this_ state. Arthur nods, extending his hand. Flushed, you place your hand in his, focusing on the roughness of his fingertips and the warmth of his palm as he wraps his hand around yours.

Your father doesn’t even take notice of your disheveled appearance or tear-streaked face, his attention remaining on the man standing behind you —an insect to be squashed and quickly. He pulls you into the stateroom by the arm, face red and jowls twitching with anger, the grip he has on your arm nigh painful. “What are you doing with someone like _him_!?” Gossip would travel quickly if anyone saw his daughter with a passenger from steerage —a man no less too. He won’t tolerate yours and his names being sullied. 

“Father!” You scold, breaking free of his hold, ashamed Arthur has to witness such uncouth behavior. “Is this really how you intend to treat the man who saved your daughter’s life?” The outburst startles your father, though it becomes clear you owe him an explanation of what occurred. Your gaze flits over to Arthur, cheeks starting to burn red as you devise a poor lie to conceal the truth of why you were hanging off the back of the _Elysian_. “I was leaning over the rail at the stern, and with the deck still wet from the rain, I slipped,” you explain, embarrassed to admit your clumsiness. “Mr. Morgan rushed to steady me, keeping me from going over,” you supplement, praising his quick and heroic actions. 

Turning, your father sizes Arthur up, his brow raised as though he struggles to believe the story. “That the truth of it?” He asks. 

Arthur’s eyes flick over to you, seeing the silent plea for discretion about the night’s events. He nods, sticking his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Yes, sir.”

Willing to let suspicion fade, your father nods, humming his approval. “I thank you for assisting my daughter,” he notes, but then the same putrid distaste slips back into his expression and tone, “but you should return to your own accommodations now.” Arthur looks down at his worn boots, nodding. 

“Arthur,” you call before the stateroom door closes, pressing his coat back into his hands with a slight smile bordering on a smirk, “join us for dinner tomorrow, as thanks.”

* * *

THE SUN MARKS the start of a new day in more than just one way. Exiting the opulent halls and foyers, you step onto the promenade, soaking in the warmth as you move toward the lower decks with purpose. “Miss,” a steward calls after seeing you unlatch the gate to the third-class deck, “you shouldn’t be down here.” You ignore him, focused on finding the man who saved your life after spending the morning gathering your nerve to speak with him. 

A hush falls upon the general room as you descend the stairs. Some of the passengers stare with resentment burning in their eyes, others with awe —as though you are royalty, something unattainable. Shying under their gazes, you search for Arthur Morgan, finding him sitting on a bench with a journal open across his thigh. Giving a small smile, you move straight toward him. Closing the journal, he rises to meet you. “Arthur,” you greet, wringing your hands together nervously. “Would you walk with me?” He nods, motioning you ahead and follows, glancing back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in Sean’s direction as you both leave to stunned silence. 

The promenade remains mostly empty in the late-morning hours, the brisk wind chasing many into their cabins until lunch and tea. Those who are on deck sit in their steamer chairs reading and chatting, sparing curious glances at the mismatched couple in passing. “Thank you,” you tell him, breaking the silence in a hushed tone laced with shame. He nods, tucking his hands in his coat pockets —the scent of rosewater perfume still lingered in the wool trimmed lapels. “You must think me silly. Foolish little rich girl, how bad could she possibly have it?” You mock, the same sentiments you’ve heard before from people who act like throwing money at any problem, no matter the size, will make it vanish. 

Arthur shakes his head. “You ain’t silly,” he says, meaning each word. “Was jus’ thinkin’ who or what could’ve hurt you so bad to make jumpin’ into freezin’ water look like the best option.” 

Hearing the luncheon bugle reminds you of the invitation you extended to Arthur last night as thanks. A part of you knows it was a foolish and impulsive thing to do —so was hanging off the back the _Elysian_ — but it presents you with one final chance to spite your father and a chance to spend time with the handsome stranger who saved your life. You wring your hands together, suddenly nervous about the prospect of willingly bringing Arthur into the first-class snakepit. _They’ll eat him alive_. 

Rough hands curl around yours, stopping your display of incessant worrying. You glimpse down at yours and his hands. Startled by how small but safe he makes you feel. Arthur lifts a brow in question. He could see the cogs turning in your mind and the words forming at the tip of your tongue. His lips twist into a slight smile, eyes sparkling in the early-afternoon sun. “About tonight,” you start, voice already trailing off, “my father is a difficult man.” Don’t let him get under your skin. He can read the warning in your eyes plain as day. 

“I know the type,” Arthur remarks, not trying to hide his contempt. He’s known plenty of men like your father before. And seeing how roughly he treated you last night had done nothing to raise his already low opinion. 

“Wait–” you spin back around to face him, brows furrowed “–what will you wear?” Arthur shrugs, looking down at his stained blue shirt and fading britches. The same from last night, only more wrinkled after an uneasy night’s sleep. Besides the pair of fading red long johns stuffed in his rucksack, it’s the only set of clothes he’d brought for the trip across the Atlantic. 

“Oh dear,” you sigh, “this won’t do.” Your eyes trace over his physique —tall, broad shoulders, strong arms, and legs. It’s the look of a man who has to work for a living. “There’s a spare suit in our luggage–” Arthur flushes under your gaze, hand rubbing the back of his neck, wasn’t often a lady looked at him so closely “–should be about your size.”

* * *

“MR. MORGAN,” YOU father greets, clapping the poor man on the shoulder —surprised to see he could almost pass for a true gentleman, “hardly recognized you.” Arthur’s smile is tight. His greeting strained until something catches the corner of his eye. His focus shifts to the top of the grand staircase —it’s like the first time he laid eyes on you all over again. The sight of you steals his breath and places him in a daze —as though he suddenly cannot believe the night is real and that your gaze is solely focused on him. He draws in a long breath as you descend toward him, a vision in emerald. 

There’s a brief moment where you stand before one another, both smiling with hearts thundering. “You look lovely,” Arthur breathes, bending at the waist, holding one arm behind his back as he takes your gloved hand, bringing your knuckles up to his lips. He’s seen others do it before but never had a chance to do it himself until now. The boy in him is giddy —a pauper finally meeting the princess he always dreamt of. 

A rose-colored flush creeps up your neck and onto your cheeks. It’s difficult not to notice how dashing he looks in evening attire, with his honey-brown hair slicked back and beard trimmed to little more than coarse stubble. “Quite handsome yourself, Arthur,” you note, smoothing down the lapel on his dinner coat —hand lingering on his chest for just a moment too long. “I knew it would fit.” He shone up like a new penny, easily looking the part of a young captain of industry. 

He offers the crook of his arm as you guide him through the foyer, pointing out prominent passengers and the latest gossip and scandals surrounding their personal lives. All trivial matters in comparison to the daily struggles beyond this tiresome circle of elites. _He must be nervous_ , you think, glancing up at him with a reserved smile as you near the dinner table. If he is, he hides it well. Your father is already deep in conversation with Henry Wright, a businessman, and philanthropist working in Nova Scotia who shares few moral and political values with other elites.

Arthur pulls out your chair, helping you up to the table before seating himself. One-by-one the empty chairs around the table are filled with wealthy men and trophy wives —the same dreadful group you would endure dining with each night until arriving back in America. You introduce your guest to the other attendees simply as Arthur Morgan, a strong name paired with a smart appearance that makes them believe he is one of their own. “Nothing to it, is there?” You ask, leaning over in your chair —smiling behind a crystal water goblet. 

The attention falls to Arthur soon after the first course arrives. “What is it you do, Mr. Morgan?”

“I travel a lot. Never get to call one place home for long,” Arthur answers, not missing a beat as he spins his nefarious history into an impressive and admirable tale. “The charity I work for, we go from town to town, helpin’ those who need it.” Everyone, save your father, is impressed by the newcomer.

You motion surreptitiously to the salad fork —the outermost fork— after seeing Arthur study the setting —hesitantly beginning to reach for the fish fork until he quickly corrects himself with your cue. “A noble cause,” Minnie Ahlborn remarks, and Henry Wright lifts his champagne flute in agreement. “Philanthropy is the true measure of a man’s success,” he adds, prompting the table to lift their glasses as well in a toast. You see your father bristle as he takes a drink — _another score for Arthur_. 

Servers come, sweeping away empty plates, making room for the next course —roast squab with cress. You reach under the table, laying your hand atop Arthur’s, giving a reassuring squeeze and quick smile. The exchanged glances, no matter how fleeting, do not go unnoticed by your father sitting across the table. He scowls, intent on ending everyone’s enamored curiosity with the mysterious man accompanying you. You catch his soured expression and feel your heart clench —father could always be counted upon. “And how are the accommodations in steerage, Mr. Morgan?” He asks, causing the table to fall silent. Once curious looks turn hostile. 

“Finest I’ve seen, sir,” Arthur replies, “hardly any rats.”

“Mr. Morgan is joining us tonight from third-class,” your father explains, doing little to hide his displeasure, “he was of some _assistance_ to my daughter last night.” As quickly as their curiosity arose, it is gone, and the remainder of the courses come-and-go, the topic of discussion shifts from Arthur to politics. _It’s for the better_ , you think —knowing they wouldn’t expect a poor steerage boy or woman to have opinions on such tedious matters. You and Arthur exchange sly smiles, ignoring the table talk for your own quiet conversations, hands occasionally finding each other’s under the table like lovesick schoolchildren. No one, not even your father, seems to notice.

Henry Wright is the first to stand from the table, straightening his dinner jacket as he clears his throat, glancing around at those still seated. “I think it’s time to retire for a smoke and brandy, gentleman.” He pulls a cigar from the pocket inside his coat. “Will you join us, Mr. Morgan? Surely you don’t wish to stay with the women.”

Arthur glances up at Henry, then back to you. There’s a glint in his eyes saying he _does_ want to stay, but he knows the night must draw to a close —he cannot remain in your world forever. “I should be getting back,” he tells the men, watching as they turn toward the smoking room.

He lingers at your side for only a moment later. “Arthur–” you grip onto his wrist before he rises, silently pleading with him to stay “–must you go?” Taking your hand again, he lifts it to place a final kiss on your knuckles before he stands and leans forward, whispering at your ear — _meet me at the clock_. Minnie averts her gaze, though when Arthur takes his leave, and you turn your attention back to the remaining ladies, you can’t help but notice her smile —silent encouragement for you to go after him. 

Excusing yourself from the gossip, you meander through the table aisles and to the foyer of the grand staircase with its extravagant balustrades and wrought-iron scrollwork. Pausing at the first step, you glance up at the glass dome overhead, gaze falling to the wall clock adorned with two bronze nymphs —Honor and Glory crowning Time. He stands at the newel, facing the ornate clock as the second-hand ticks by. Arthur turns, seeing you from the corner of his eye, and his smile widens as he offers his hand. “How ‘bout we go to a real party, darlin’?”

* * *

SEAN PASSES YOU a glass of dark beer as you both watch Arthur dance with a little girl. She’s standing on top of his feet, laughing and smiling as the ad hoc band plays. The first beer creates a budding warmth in your stomach, the second and third that follow make you feel invincible. Rising, you grab onto Sean’s hand, tired of sitting around only watching. He laughs as you pull him toward the center of the makeshift dancefloor. 

Seeing you, Arthur smiles and leans down to whisper something at the girl’s ear. She nods, grinning, and goes to tug on the skirt of your dress —pointing at Arthur. Sean is quick to scoop up his newest dancing partner, edging around the space to laughter. Arthur bends at the waist, holding out his hand. Rough fingers curl around your hand, drawing you almost flush against his chest with his other hand resting on the small of your waist. You don’t know the steps to the dance, but neither does Arthur, and it doesn’t matter in the slightest. Nothing else seems to matter but the way he’s looking at you with a smile as you laugh, sometimes stumbling over your feet and dress. It’s a glimpse into a world that feels more like home than the lavish stateroom and mansions ever could. 

“This,” you begin, breathless as you collapse next to Arthur on a bench, still watching other couples dance wildly to the bagpipes and fiddle, “this is the most fun I’ve had in _years_.” Catching your breath, you lean into his shoulder and fight back the smile when his arm settles around your shoulders and the backs of his fingers skim across your cheek. 

When the crowd grows too rowdy and the smoke too thick, Arthur takes your hand and leads you from the general room back onto the promenade, where the cool and damp night air greets you both. He drapes the borrowed dinner jacket over your shoulders and offers the crook of his arm for a drunken midnight stroll. Arthur tells you about some of his travels, the things he’s seen, and the people he’s met. He chuckles, scratching the stubble on his jaw. “Some ventures ain’t for the noblest cause, but I’ve seen ‘merica from California to New York.”

You squint, imagining what he’d look like with a low-strung gun belt on his hips and a wide-brim hat atop his head —a charming image. Almost as charming as how he looks now with a bowtie hanging around his neck, the first three buttons of the dress-shirt undone, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You lean into his side, lightly nudging him in the ribs. “Almost sounds like you could be an outlaw, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Ran into a few,” he laughs, “that’s for damn sure.”  
You’ve paced around the deck thrice now, laughing over stories from the ghost of days gone by, anything to make tonight last longer. Sighing, you look up to where you are, both you and Arthur stopping. “Here we are.” You stop beneath the sign marking the entrance to the first-class lodgings but don’t go straight in, wanting this evening, this moment, to last longer. “I don’t want to go back, Arthur,” you admit, grabbing onto a davit and leaning back —staring up at the heavens.

“Look–” he points up the sky “–a shootin’ star.” A pale streak of light fades into the dark horizon. “Make a wish,” Arthur whispers, one of his arms wrapping around your waist, drawing you back into his chest as he watches your eyes slip shut and face scrunch up, concentrating. “What’d you wish for?” He asks. 

You shift, looking up at Arthur, his blue-green eyes hazy with affection, a lazy smile playing on his lips. He’s so close —warm breath hitting your cheek— all you’d have to do to kiss him is reach up on your toes. Propriety stops you from acting on the desire to know what it feels like having his lips against yours. “Something I can’t have,” you answer, shrinking away from him and back to the first-class entrance. “Goodnight, Arthur.” It’s a faint whisper carried on the night breeze before you retreat into your world.

* * *

_THIS STOPS NOW, do you understand? You are not to see him again_. Your father’s harsh words and actions from breakfast echo in your mind as you unlatch the gate to the third-class deck. Concerned over your newfound infatuation, he’d sent his valet to find you after several of the ladies said you’d left on Arthur’s arm. He entertained the steerage boy’s presence for dinner, but now this petty game had to stop. 

You had to see Arthur Morgan again, no matter what your father had said and threatened. You needed to see him if only to be able to tell him the reason whatever this was turning into couldn’t last any longer, no matter how your heart had begun to yearn for his. Drying tears, you descend the stairs into the general room. Many of those there recall you from the previous night, their initial reservations about a first-class lady thrown to the wind. They smile, and you return the gesture, searching for Arthur —or Sean. Neither are there, but the young girl Arthur danced with tugs on the skirt of your dress, pointing in the direction of the lower promenade. 

He’s standing next to Sean, looking over the side of the ship with an unlit cigarette between his lips. You stop a few feet back, hands clasped at the belt of your coat, suddenly nervous. “Hello, Arthur.” Both he and Sean turn from the rail, but the latter is quick to lower his head with a smile, leaving you and Arthur alone as he withdraws to the general room.

There’s something wrong, Arthur can tell by the distant look in your eyes as you stand next to him where Sean had been. “What is it?” He asks, raising a brow and resisting the urge to place his hand on your lower back —the way he held you while dancing last night. 

You fumble with words, spinning the ring you’ve neglected to wear for so long around your finger —it’s always felt like a shackle. “I’m engaged–” you curl your fingers around the railing, sunlight striking the diamond on your hand “–set to marry after we make port in New York.” Invitations had already been sent out, over five hundred guests would be in attendance —the press called it a wedding of American royalty with no expense spared. 

Arthur purses his lips, glancing skyward as he leans against a steel pillar. He should have known this was too good to last. “That so?” He asks, arms crossed. 

“Yes,” you sigh, “to Nathaniel Cornwall.”

He pales at the mention of the Cornwall name, feeling a weight settle on his chest — _best not mention I robbed her future father-in-law_. Arthur runs a hand down his face and scratching at the beginnings of the beard on his chin and jaw. “Suppose I wish you happiness then.” For the first time, the words seem forced, insincere. He expects you to leave, but you linger at his side with dread filling the pit of your stomach. Arthur sees the same helplessness in your eyes now as he did two nights ago. “That why you were ready to jump?”

The brazen question stuns you for a moment —part of you wants to scold him for asking such a thing, but it serves as the final crack in a degraded dam, leaving you unable to remain silent. “My father,” you start, wringing your hands together as you recall overhearing the conversations and arguments between him, the bankers and investors, and your dear late mother. It’s only a matter of time before you would have to depart with precious heirlooms to scrape by. That was until he remembered the midsummer galas at the Cornwall’s summer home in New York, and how Leviticus’ son quickly became smitten with you. It is a smart match that would save preserve the family company and lavish lifestyle at the price of your happiness —a sacrifice your father had been more than willing and eager to make. “His company’s in debt. We’re soon to lose everything but our name.”

Arthur scoffs, shaking his head as he cracks his knuckles. “Some kinda man he is, lettin’ his daughter take the bullet.”

“It’s why I feel so _trapped_ and _helpless_. Like I could scream at the top of my lungs in a crowded room, and no one would even notice. I just–” your voice cracks, revealing the broken girl Arthur saved from jumping to a watery grave “–I want to run away,” you admit. He reaches out, taking one of your hands, and loosely threads his fingers with yours. 

“I’ve always wanted to explore.” Arthur smiles, seeing a spark take hold in your eyes. Even as a girl, nature called to you, bidding you travel the world. But society would turn you into a proper and pious lady, loyal to family only to be sold off like a broodmare. Wide-open plains and towering snow-capped mountains had always felt like the places you could belong —somewhere fall away from tall buildings and crowded streets. “Read so many books and heard so many tales of the West, but I’ve never even been past the Appalachians. I’d give up everything for a chance to have freedom–” you glimpse his blue-green eyes, finding hope “–to have a life like yours.”

He gives a dry laugh, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t want what I have, trust me.”

Reaching out, you cup his jaw and lifting his gaze back to yours —thumb absently running over the scars on his chin where a patch of hair refuses to grow. “I think I do,” you breathe, and Arthur watches the little smile twist your lips as your cheeks flush. _I want you_ —you hadn’t said those words verbatim, but he catches the way your eyes flit down to his lips and the budding darkness within them, and by God, he wants you too. All Arthur has to do is lean forward, and he does. 

He holds your face, kissing you slowly —reverently. The way you deserve to be kissed every day. Smiling against his mouth, you slide your arm over his shoulder, palm pressing into the center of his back. He eases away from the kiss, eyes wide, breath heavy. His thumbs stroke your cheeks, gaze moving from your lips to eyes. Arthur’s never had a woman look at him the way you are now. It’s hard to pinpoint what the look means, but it makes his chest feel tight and his heart beat faster. 

Your arm draped over his shoulder slips back down to his chest —fingertips pressing into the flat plane of muscle separated by thin cotton as you tilt your chin up, stealing a second kiss from his parted lips. With a content sigh, you press your forehead into his chest, grinning and nigh laughing at how free and cherished you feel with Arthur. His arms snake around your middle, cheek turning to rest against the top of your head.

* * *

“WHAT’S THIS?” YOU ask, taking the leatherbound journal you often see him lugging about, an excuse to have more time with him. He doesn’t have the chance to answer before you open the leather cover, seeing what lies within. Arthur sits next to you on a steamer chair, looking over your shoulder as you flip through the pages. Mingled with short writings are charcoal likenesses of people and landscapes. You glance at him, grinning —not expecting a man of his look and demeanor to put time and effort into something such as this. 

“These–” you turn the page, finding the following two pages filled with a sketch of a street corner in Saint Denis, fitted with horse and buggies, women in fineries and men wearing top hats “–these are wonderful, Arthur.” He scratches the back of his neck, unused to the praise. All the animals and flowers he’s come across fill the pages with small but detailed drawings with neat enough writing to keep track of the names and dates he’d seen each one. “You have a true talent.”  
“Jus’ something to keep busy,” he remarks offhandedly. 

You close the journal, handing it back. “Would you draw me?” Arthur’s brows furrow. His drawings aren’t exceedingly ornate, capturing the simplicity of nature and others —his sketches are a window into how he sees the world, and you can’t help but wonder how he sees you. “I’m tired of looking like a doll in every portrait,” you lament, almost laughing at how ridiculous you must sound. The furrow in his brow fades as he laughs, shaking his head —he can only imagine a painting of you in your best dress hanging above a mantle somewhere, looking like a porcelain doll. The brief amusement fades when you thread your fingers with his. “I want you to draw me as you see me,” you explain, hopeful he will say yes.

“You mean it?” Arthur questions, not wanting to let himself be made a fool of again by a woman. But nothing in your eyes or countenance hint at this being a ruse. In answer, you rise and extend your hand —inviting him back into your world. 

You close the stateroom door, doing your best not to let your nervousness show. “So long as there are brandy and cigars, we won’t have to worry about father,” you assure him, turning the lock in place. Arthur’s attention flits from you to the elaborate decorations and fixtures of the first-class quarters. He’d briefly peered in two nights ago, but this feels different than that, different from attending dinner too. Reaching up, you kiss the corner of his mouth, smiling. “I’ll go change.” You won’t let the idea playing in your mind fade, even if butterflies are flapping wildly in your belly.

Arthur’s gaze flicks up to the opening door of your stateroom —his heart thuds in his chest, and his mouth turns dry upon seeing you step out with only a thin robe barely held close. “Do you mind, Mr. Morgan?” You ask, gesturing to the robe. He swallows the lump in his throat and shakes his head, not daring to look away or even blink as you let the robe fall open before shrugging it completely off. 

He drinks in your appearance —gaze unabashedly trailing up your legs to the curve of your hips and belly before lingering on your breasts. Had it been any other man staring at you like this, you would be nervous, but there’s something about the kindness and reverence in Arthur’s eyes that calms your nerves. It feels as though you’ve found the man you’d be willing to spend forever with. “Where would you have me?” The question breaks the heavy silence. Clearing his throat, Arthur points to the sofa across from him. 

You lay on your side, draping one arm along your body, hand resting on your hip. Arthur revels in the sight before him and the perfection of your silhouette —truly exquisite. “Is that a blush?” You tease, seeing a flush of red rise to his cheeks as his gaze flits between you and his journal. With a pounding heart, he opens the leatherbound book to a blank page, firmly holding his sharpened piece of charcoal and lets his eyes fall on you again.

The glimmer from the wall sconces sheen on your fair, smooth skin. Arthur’s eyes travel across your body like his hands are aching to do. He traces the curve of your hip first, then the arc of your waist, and the swell of your bosom. He notices how your chest rises and falls heavily for each breath and the pink on your cheeks —a mix of shyness and the thrill of the moment. His lips part, brows furrowing in concentration with a new brush of the charcoal onto the paper —he cannot chase away his thoughts. How the curves of your body call to him and his touch and the slight tremor of your lips that he can still with his own. 

Time blurs. Just as Arthur studies you for his sketch, your gaze traces over him, committing it all to memory —the curve of his lips, the furrow in his brows, the flecks of light shining in his blue-green eyes. Setting down the dulled piece of charcoal, Arthur skims over his sketch —eyes flicking up to compare the drawing to the likeness still laying before him. Gathering your discarded robe from the floor, you slide your arms back into the thin silk and tie off the belt as you go to where he sits —leaning over his shoulder to look at the finished product. “As I said,” you smile, leaning down, lips just brushing against his when he looks back at you, “true talent.”

Arthur lays his journal on the short tea table, watching your saunter back to your bedroom to dress, though you stop in the doorway and glance over your shoulder. “I may need some assistance, Mr. Morgan.” He’s on his feet and crossing the stateroom sitting room in a blink. 

Calloused hands glide over your shoulders, pushing aside loose waves, and curls to the side to see the length of the laces on the back of your corset before he begins tightening the piece of silk threaded through the eyelets. It takes a long moment. He’s more accustomed to taking corsets off than helping ladies back into them. Thanking him for the help, you slip into a simple gown, thin and comfortable —the pale pinks and blues with a belt of lavender could fool Arthur into thinking you were a princess, or at least a fairy come to enchant him. 

He moves back to the sitting room to collect his journal, but you hear a key in the lock of the statement and the turning of the door handle. Heart pounding, you pull Arthur back into the adjoining bedroom, closing the door just as the one to the sitting room opens. “No one has seen her since this morning.” It’s your father’s valet that speaks. A trice later, you hear his heavy footfalls, mumbling under his breath about how there are only so many places on a ship you could be. 

A third man enters the stateroom. Peering through the keyhole, you can make out the ship’s master-at-arms —his gaze falling to the opened journal in one of the parlor chairs. “Good lord,” your father gasps, appalled by the vulgarity as he looks down at the sketch, facing red and jowls trembling with anger. “I want her found and returned immediately,” he tells the valet and master-at-arms, sending them away with a wave of his hand.

Waiting for just a moment, you and Arthur slip from your bedroom, closing the door softly as you take his hand, leading him down the corridor. The onlookers smile politely, tipping their hats in passing —an odd couple, but one clearly enamored with each other. “STOP!” The valet shouts, but you and Arthur break into a run, laughing as you round the grand staircase for the bank of lifts, sliding past a finely dressed group just exiting, shocking the attendant.

“Take us down!” You tell him, urgently. The lift attendant doesn’t protest the demand, scrambling to secure the gates before pressing the button for E deck as the valet looks down into the descending lift for a moment before darting off for the stars. Arthur stumbles, lips twisted in a smile as he pulls you from the lift and onto E deck. “This is insane,” you laugh, leaning against the corridor wall to catch your breath.

“Go, run,” Arthur says, nudging you into motion. The valet spots the two of you from a cross-corridor nearby, charging. Arthur takes your hand, leading you down another set of stairs to F deck, quickly turning a corner into a blind alley. There’s only one door, marked with red lettering that says _Crew Only_. Disregarding what it says, he flings it open, extending his hand for you to enter first like a proper gentleman. Arthur latches the door shut before the valet slams against it a moment later, looking back at you with a boyish grin. 

There’s no way to go but down. Arthur descends the escape ladder first, catching you in his arms at the last two steps, and spins the two of you around. The smile and laugh on your lips die when you step forward, looking around in awe. Here lies the great heart of the _Elysian_ and hell itself. Roaring furnaces paint the smoky air red and orange. Black figures move in the haze, shoveling coal into the insatiable maws of the furnaces lining the length of the corridor. It’s not until you have to dodge a trimmer hauling a wheelbarrow of coal that someone notices the two of you —out of place in unstained clothes. “You can’t be down here!” One of the stokers shouts. 

“Sorry!” Arthur calls back, the two of your breaking into a run, dodging stokers and trimmers, passing through several of the watertight doors and into a hazy hallway. It’s there you both slow, and he turns, skin slick with sweat from the heat of the furnaces, the soft glow of the burning coal makes the scars on his face more apparent —there’s two on his chin, one at the bridge of his nose, and another on his cheek. Stepping closer, Arthur dips his head down, pressing his mouth to yours, his rough stubble scratching against your chin and cheek. It saps the breath from your lungs, forcing any thoughts you have to slip into oblivion. His arm wraps around your waist, cinching you to him. Lost in the heat of the boiler room and the kiss, you push your fingers into his honey-brown hair, feeling the silken strands between your fingers.

Lips still against yours, he guides you back along the narrow hall and into the adjoining room. You gasp, parting from his kiss when the cold air of the cargo hold hits you after the heat of furnaces. The hold is dimly lit, stacked high with crates and packages bound for America. At the center is a car —a new model with a hardtop in place of canvas— strapped to a long pallet. Drawn to the car, Arthur circles the Fritchle, stopping at the carriage door. Lifting your chin, you step forward, clearing your throat. “Apologies, ma’am,” he says with a quirk on his lips as he opens the door and helps you up into the backseat before stepping up himself, closing the door but opening another.

He watches as you stroke his cheek gently with your fingertips, finding every scar and freckle, committing them all to memory. Arthur grips onto your wrist when you find a scar at the bridge of his nose —one broken too many times to count in bar fights and other squabbles— and chases away the space between your lips. Each kiss feels like a first, with butterflies dancing in your belly as he parts your lips with his tongue, holding you close. 

You take his hand, pressing lingering kisses to his rough fingertips and palm —watching his brows furrow before relaxing, a swell of emotion seizing his heart. Everything, even this, feels unnervingly natural. “Put your hands on me, Arthur,” you whisper, guiding his hand to rest on your clothed breast. All his doubt disappears when you surge forward, finding his lips with a smile at the tickle of the stubble on his jaw. His hands roam your body —exploring in his attempt to find the ties and buttons of your dress, lips never straying far from yours. You laugh at Arthur’s frustrated groan and sit up, reaching to help him with a short line of buttons and the laces of your corset. 

He stares, eyes heavy and lust-filled, as he drinks in your disheveled figure —relishing in how pink and swollen your lips are from his affections and how the soft hairs on your body are raised, alert and reactive. His lungs give a shuddering sigh as he leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, savoring the moment as he knows it cannot last. His touch is gentle and reverent, and it drives you to insanity as it’s nothing short of teasing. Rough hands brush over your shoulders, sides, stomach, and breasts. Arthur pauses there, cupping the soft swells, thumbs running across your nipples, bringing them to taut rosy peaks, as he presses more of his weight onto you.

You tug at his blue-cotton shirt, undoing one button before he leans back, hastily unbuttoning the rest, dropping the stained and wrinkled shirt into the floorboard with your dress and corset. The drag of your nails over his chest and sides coaxes a low groan from him, reverberating low in his chest. There’s a scar on his left shoulder. The tips of your fingers find the patch of smooth, silvery skin. Part of wants to ask how he got it, but the other part of you already knows —gunfire. 

For a moment, you both still, staring at each other —skin flushed and hearts racing. Bracing his weight on one forearm, Arthur reaches for the hand resting just under his ribs, kissing your palm, fingertips, and clavicles —savoring the sweet scent of your skin. “Arthur,” you gasp, hands cradling his face. You feel his smirk as he trails his nose down along your neck and over the swells of your breasts, leaving kisses here and there. The gentle shifting of your hips tears a low rumble from his throat —nestled against your bare sex you feel his cock harden.

Arthur pushes your knees apart, kneeling between them in the small space of the backseat, baring yourself to him. Trembling fingers twine into his honey-brown hair, brushing the soft locks away from his face. His eyes are ablaze in the dim light —a devotee soon to be at prayer after an arduous pilgrimage. A shiver creeps down your spine as Arthur drags his hands along your thighs, bringing one to rest half on his shoulder. The coil in your stomach tightens in anticipation, watching as he runs his thumbs along the insides of your thighs. He repeats the motion, but this time with the scruff on his jaw — _so close_. And then he’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time. 

He banquets sumptuously, tongue delving into your warmth. You whimper with helpless longing, hips rising from the seat to press against his mouth. “Arthur.” The breathy gasps and low moans you make above him set his blood aflame —and the sweet, heady taste of your satisfaction feeds the arousal pressed almost painfully tight against his belly. His tongue flicks out against your clit, unrelenting. Arthur moans against you, a low, primal noise from the back of his throat as he slips two fingers inside you, stroking and curling. You writhe in the confined space of the backseat, tugging at his hair, back arching, and toes curling. He laps, suckles, and nibbles until the coil in your stomach is wound tight and ready to release.

And it does.

“I got you, darlin’,” he coos, easing you down with soft kisses along the inside of your thighs. It’s a glorious sight to see you above him —skin slick with sweat, but nigh shivering, chest heaving, and lips parted. Arthur lets your thigh slip off his shoulder before sliding back up your body, eager to have your lips pressed against his again. You gladly relent, letting him claim your mouth as his own —a distraction as you run your hands down his sides and chest, past the trail of hair starting at his navel to button his britches. 

He rips away from the kiss when you take his cock in hand, mouth falling open as your fingers wrap around him and start a slow rhythm stroking him. Tearing himself from the haze, Arthur pulls your hand off him and is quick to push off his britches into the growing pile of clothing before settling back between your welcoming thighs.

Arthur swears under his breath as he presses his cock into your tight warmth, and you watch his face contort in bliss —teeth bared and breathing labored. It’s almost too much for him to bear. He stills, fully seated, letting you adjust the stretch and fullness as he kisses you again, and again. In only a short span, you begin to wonder how you will live without Arthur’s kisses and the softness of his rough hands against your flesh. There’s an aching moment of hesitation before Arthur surrenders his control with a deep groan, finally rocking his hips, after your wiggle yours, his strokes fast and deep. It’s not gentle, nor is it spectacularly rough —it lays somewhere between, fitting for his rugged looks and lifestyle. 

Your hands find purchase on his back, feeling the muscles contract under your palms —nails digging into flesh. He responds with a low growl, and you see the beads of perspiration on his brow, a mix of the humid air and his exertion as he rolls his hips into yours. One of Arthur’s hands shackles your ankle before running up the length of your calf, up and over your thigh. Your belly knots as his fingers drift back down, hooking his hand behind your knee and drawing your leg around his waist —tilting your hips upward. The shift in your breathing and how your thighs squeeze him tell him you’re close again, but he doesn’t want this to end yet. “Don’t,” Arthur pleads —voice unusually gruff— as the rhythm and pace of his thrusts falter, “not yet.” 

The gentle command is met with your soft whimper. He bends, pecking your lips gently to quiet the small noises you make, and draws back to watch your face contort and twist. Thrusts slowing but reaching deeper, you feel your stomach start to twist and body tense. You hold him close, feeling the expanse of his warm chest pressed against your own. Warmth gathers in the pit of your belly, an ember fanned to flames with each thrust. Arthur buries his face into your neck, biting and kissing, his hand snaking between your joined bodies to press against your clit. 

“Let go,” he rasps, and your body shudders —becoming weightless and infinite, like a feather one a wayward breeze— walls tightening around his cock. His head droops forward with a strangled gasp. He rolls his hips into yours thrice more, fighting the burning heat and tightness before his body tenses and relaxes. He braces his weight on bent forearms, blue-green eyes staring down at you with adoration and awe. Breathing unsteady and hearts racing, you pull him down atop you, arms wrapping around his shoulders, holding him against your breast.

An eternity could creep by in the cargo hold of _Elysian,_ and it wouldn’t feel like enough time, not since you’ve only just found one another. Arthur shifts, drawing you up with him, fingertips run up and down your spine, his nose brushing against yours as you both lay in the backseat, trembling. “Come with me,” he breathes, “I’ll take you west.” His kiss is featherlight and over before you can respond. “Wherever you want to go.” The promise seems too good to believe, but it’s not a jest, he means every word. 

You slide your fingers through his damp hair. “Arthur.” His eyes are shut but he can hear a smile in the way you say his name. “I don’t understand,” you sigh, shaking your head, reaching down to entwine your fingers with his. The differences in your lives evident in your hands —his are rough and scarred from a life of hard work, yours are soft and dainty in comparison, never having known a hard day’s labor. You come from two different worlds, but none of that matters. Tilting your chin up, you brush your lips against his, smiling. “It feels like I’ve known you my whole life.”

* * *

THE NIGHT IS calm, clear, and bitterly cold with no moon, but the cloudless sky blazes with stars. The Atlantic looks like polished glass. The night air is frigid on your damp and warm skin as you and Arthur exit onto the deck, laughing between kisses. Breaths clouding around you both in the freezing air, but you don’t feel the cold with the warmth burning in your chest. You’d made up your mind —when the ship docked, you’d go with Arthur Morgan, forsaking everything for a life of freedom and adventure, the life you’d dreamt of since childhood. 

Breaking away from his kiss, a glint of silver catches your eye. Rising from the dark water in the distance is a pale mass, gleaming like a silver beacon in the starlight. You lean over the rail, staring off into the darkness as the _Elysian_ plows forward. “Is that?” Arms wrap around your middle, pulling you away from the rail. “Iceberg,” Arthur says, nodding. Above, the crow’s nest bell tolls in warning. The _Elysian_ is on a collision course, and all anyone can do is wait for God’s will to act. 

You both watch as the ice draws nearer. The _Elysian_ is almost atop it, and still, the ship does not turn. The iceberg towers —wet and glistening— far above the forecastle deck. Arthur’s arm around your waist tightens and frightened your shift in his hold, pressing your cheek into his chest. Then, the deck jolts underfoot, and the bow starts to swing toward port, leaving the ice to glide by along the starboard side. It only looks like a close shave at first, but deep in the belly of the ship, a grinding, tearing sound arises, and the deck shudders and groans. 

It takes only a few minutes for other passengers to find their way onto the deck, searching for what had caused the jarring sound and why the engines had stopped. Though by now the iceberg is long past —only a pale blip on the dark horizon barely discernable. On the deck below children, take to kicking around chunks of ice and gleefully tossing pieces at one another. “You’re freezing,” Arthur notes, lifting his hand to your cheek before shrugging off his worn coat and draping it around your shoulders. 

Taking Arthur’s hand, you lead him to the A deck entrance, curious if anyone has heard word of what happened in those few seconds beyond what you had witnessed. Dozens are gathered in the foyer, mingling together —a curious picture compared to how you are accustomed to seeing this lot. Bathrobes mix with evening clothes, heavy fur coats, and thick knit sweaters. 

Unsure of what to do in the growing panic surrounding the unknown, you and Arthur settle on a bench at the edge of the foyer —watching people come and go, many retiring for the night once again with no answers. Only minutes pass, but it feels like hours. Flustered with a stack of blueprints tucked under his arm is _Elysian_ ’s architect, leaving from the bridge. Beneath the façade he tries to wear around the passengers, both you and Arthur can see the dire scope of what occurred. You intercept his path, pleading softly for the truth of it and how much time was left. “She will sink,” he says, remorseful he had not been able to build a stronger ship nor argue the case for more lifeboats. “One hour, perhaps less, I cannot give you an answer besides the _Elysian_ will founder.”

Arthur squeezes your hand, drawing you from a fearful daze and back into the moment —hundreds remain blissfully ignorant. You know by dawn, over half the passengers and crew of the ocean liner would be resting at the bottom of the Atlantic. “C’mon,” he breathes, “gotta tell Sean.” A piece of you knows it is foolish to follow him when you could return to the warmth of your stateroom until they begin filling the lifeboats, but there’s solace and freedom in going with Arthur, even if it means death. 

Water rushes into the elevator before it comes to a stop. Every inch it creeps up your legs is like a thousand stabbing knives —sucking the air from your lungs and paralyzing you. The operator halts the lift before reaching the bottom. He will take you no further. Arthur pries the metal gate open, hopping down into knee-deep water. “Go back up,” he tells you, “I’ll find you.” 

You shake your head, knowing he’s lying, and jump down, hiding the stabbing pain of the frigid water rising to your hips as you push ahead into the long corridor running from stern to bow. The corridor is empty, save for floating clothing and luggage. “Sean!” Arthur shouts. You echo his call as the water rises and the hall lights flicker. You both push through the water, calling out and waiting to hear an answer. Each time there is none. 

One of the doors swings open, more water swirling up from the depths and pouring in from every porthole and loose rivet. Fighting the surge is a familiar head of red hair. Both you and Arthur rush toward him, steadying him from slipping under and pulling him down the hall toward the elevators. “Oi!” Sean exclaims, soaked from head to toe —his usual ruddy appearance replaced by a pallor with blue-tinged lips. He grabs Arthur by the shoulders, smiling. “Never been so happy to see that ugly mug of yours, English.” His lips tremble, voice wavering.

“What’re you still doin’ down here?” Arthur asks, wading toward the stern where the water isn’t as deep. 

“Bastards locked the bloody stair gates,” he says. The foremost stairwells were already submerged along with two dozen steerage passengers clawing at the gate to reach the deck above when no one would heed their cries. The only reason Sean wasn’t among them was that he went looking the master-at-arms quarters for a pistol, axe, anything to force open the other gates. He pulls a revolver from his belt. “Had to go lookin’ for one these.” Arthur’s lips quirk up into a half-smile as shakes his head. 

You stop, looking back at Arthur and Sean in horror as the ship groans —louder than the initial collision—and the lights flicker, this time going out completely before flashing back on seconds later. The surge of darkness and water renews the sense of panic as Arthur grips onto your hand, pushing against the water as fast as he can to find the nearest stairwell.

The three of you emerge onto B deck just as the water begins flowing over the stairs into the hall behind you. The ship is taking on water faster now, the incline of the deck visible. “Miss!” A steward on the second-class deck stops you, hastily undoing the ties of his lifebelt. “Please, take it,” he says, scurrying around the three of you to continue checking the staterooms. You don’t even have time to say thank you before Arthur and Sean are pulling you from the hall and into the cold night. 

Sean pushes his way to the rail through the stream of shouting and pushing people, looking at the state of the ship as Arthur helps you with the lifebelt. The bridge is underwater, a wave rolling up the deck —there isn’t much time left at all now.

* * *

“WOMEN AND CHILDREN only!” The officers cry out, overseeing the departure of the lifeboats. There wasn’t enough for everyone aboard —hardly enough room for half even if they were at capacity before rowing away. Only three lifeboats remain, all quickly filling up. Others have abandoned hope and jump into the frigid water, clinging to chairs and each other to stay afloat. 

There’s a seat saved for you in one of them next to your father —a hefty bride to the coordinating officer. “Get in the boat,” he pleads, both arms extended toward you. Anger twists his face as he rises. “Get in the boat _now_!” This is not the time for churlish games and defiance. You shake your head, stepping back from the lifeboat. 

“Listen to him,” Arthur tells you, pushing you forward, but there is no lifeboat that can bear you if Arthur Morgan is not at your side. 

You look at your father as if to say goodbye —watching his expression falter, shifting to desolation, _serves him right_ — before turning to Arthur. “No–” you grip onto his shirt, tears welling in your eyes, shimmering like jewels as another flare rises into the night, a streak of white and red “–I’m not leaving you.” Shaking your head, you swallow the lump in your throat. “I won’t go,” you tell him, leaping up and wrapping your arms around his shoulders, kissing him as though it will be the last time. Another takes your spot, and unable to wait any longer, the lifeboat begins its descent to the water before pushing away from the ship and rowing into the darkness.

“Need to stay on the ship as long as we can,” he says, taking hold of your hand and starting to push through the swamp of panicked passengers toward the stern. You and Arthur clamber over the A-deck aft rail, then he lowers you to the deck below —holding on with a single hand. Dangling for a moment, he lets you fall then jumps down behind you, hand pressing into your lower back to keep close in the crush of people clawing and scrambling over each over to get down the narrow set of stairs to the well-deck —the only way forward.

Behind, the stay cables along the top of the funnel nearest the water snap —lashing like steep whips down into the water— before the funnel topples from its mounts, falling as a temple pillar with a whomp and great splash. The ship groans and shudders. Without the weight, the stern rises quicker. 

Making the stairs is night impossible, but Sean appears in the crowd, tugging you both to another step down over the rails to the well-deck below. He climbs over the B-deck railing and drops down, motion for Arthur to help you over too. Arthur lowers you down again, letting Sean catch you before jumping down to join, pushing through the crowd across the well-deck. “Gotta keep goin’,” Arthur says, noticing the trek to the stern growing harder as the bow dips further into the sea, increasing the pitch of the decks. Lights flicker, and above the panic, you can hear the band still playing, a pastor praying with a group who have given up hope, and the sound of people jumping from the rails, splashing into the water with shrill cries.

You hold to Arthur, finding comfort in the rhythm of his heartbeat as you press your cheek into his chest, feeling the deck tilt further. The lights flicker for a final time before going out all over the ship, leaving a vast black silhouette against the blazing stars. 

A loud cracking report echoes across the water and over the screams and cries, warning before the deck splits open into a chasm of jagged and twisted metal, and the sea pours into the open wound as the _Elysian_ tears itself apart. Nigh detached from the bow, the stern tips back —your stomach dropping— and falls back into the water to a chorus of screams, everyone struggling to hold onto fixed objects and each other. The ship rights itself, a moment of salvation in the eyes of those who had been praying. The reprieve cannot last. 

This time, when the stern rises, it does so rapidly, hardly giving those who loosened their grips time to react. People start to fall, slide and tumble downward as the aft continues to rise. You look at your hold on the rail, knowing you cannot hold on forever if the ship tilts anymore.

Arthur climbs over the stern and reaches back for you, pulling you over the rail too. The cruel irony of where you are now is not lost —it had been this spot nigh two nights ago when Arthur talked you back over the railing, saving you from a fate that is now inevitable. Clinging to the rail, you watch as the deck tilts, the stern rising into the air once more for a final time. The _Elysian_ rises, a black monolith standing against the stars, hanging there for a long grace note. 

You lie on the railing, looking down to the boiling sea at the base of the stern section. The people who had not made it over the rail hang tight to it —legs dangling over the long drop into the water or collision with the ship. Arthur grips onto one of your hands, squeezing it tight as one-by-one the passengers plummet down the vertical face of the gunwale —some bouncing off deck benches and ventilators before splashing into the sea. 

The black ocean waiting below to claim you sends a jolt of terror through your blood. You grip Arthur’s hand harder, watching the sea foam and swirl as the ship heaves forward into the water, dropping like an elevator with broken cables. Down, down dips the _Elysian_ ’s bow, her stern swinging slowly up before making the same downward march into the abyss. Arthur shifts his hand, threading his fingers through yours as the sea rises to swallow you both. “It’ll pull us down,” he says, hiding his fear. “Don’t let go of my hand. Take a deep breath when I say.” You nod, glancing between him and the dark water —freezing yet boiling as the ship is pulled down. “We’re gonna make it.” You’ve no option but to believe as the deck disappears. The icy spray licks at your cheeks when Arthur nods to take a deep breath. Filling your lungs, you grip onto his hand as tight as you can and close your eyes as water hits, and the ship drags you both beneath the waves. 

You breach the water, gasping for air, immediately calling out for Arthur after losing hold of his hand fighting against the drag of the ship. Over a thousand people float in the freezing water —some are stunned in silence, others are crying, praying, moaning, screaming. You join the desperate roar, calling for Arthur until you hear your name in his voice —barely above a whisper near your ear. He kicks hard to stay afloat, knowing you both need to get out of the water before it’s too late. 

“Need you to swim for me,” he chokes, spotting something wooden floating in the water, large enough to at least keep you from the icy embrace. You try, but your strokes aren’t as effective given the lifebelt. Arthur wraps his shaking hand around your wrist, towing you behind him to break out of the clot of people, reaching the door panel. 

Arthur pushes you up onto the door, lets you settle for a moment before he clambers on too, careful not to tip the precarious balance. All around you are wailing, screaming, moaning —the sound of tormented souls who should never have been in this situation to behind had there been enough lifeboats. Beyond the splashing and cries is nothing but black water stretching to the horizon. Your eyes flit over Arthur —his honey-brown hair has the first flakes of ice forming, his blue lips quivering. 

Drawing in a shallow breath, you close your eyes just for a moment, unable to stop the sense of isolation and hopelessness from overwhelming you. Not far over is one of the ship’s officers, blowing a whistle furiously, knowing the sound will carry over the water for miles. Arthur says the boats will come back. It’ll just take some time for them to organize, you doubt it though, having seen the people on them —even in disaster, they cared little for the plight of others. There’s a strange peace, floating among the chorus of the damned as you look between Arthur and the stars above.

Hours seem to pass as you lay next to Arthur, careful not to move or risk tumbling into the freezing water. Slowly you begin to notice the cries and screams aren’t as loud —the officer blowing his whistle has gone silent despite it still hanging between his teeth. The water is calm again. There’s no sign of struggle from the passengers who thrashed about in the moments after the _Elysian_ was pulled below. “It’s getting quiet,” you rasp, scarcely recognizing your voice having turned brittle and quiet —like suffering from a spring fever. Arthur shifts, pulling his frozen hair from the wood to look around. The North Atlantic is a field of corpses.

He tries to hide his fear and uncertainty, but you can see it. “I’m so cold.” Your dress is frozen to your skin, hair frosted over, and stuck to the door below. If there was ever a time that felt like the end of everything, this is it. Turning your head, you meet Arthur’s gaze —there’s something longing and remorseful about how he looks at you, as though he knew this could never last one way or another. The two days you spent with him felt like a lifetime, a life where you knew freedom and what it was like to be cherished by another who saw you for who you were. “I love you, Arthur,” you choke, the words slipping from your blue and quivering lips of their own accord. 

Arthur squeezes his eyes close, shaking his head. It sounds too much like you’re giving up. “No goodbyes,” he pleads, voice just as rough and shaky as yours, “not yet.” If you could cry, you would —you don’t want to say goodbye, not yet, not ever. “They’re comin’ back.” It even sounds like an empty statement to him now, but he has to hope. It’s all that’s left. Hope and love.

* * *

MORNING COMES AFTER an endless night. The _Velos_ is overcrowded with people on the deck and in halls and dining rooms, searching for friends and family after receiving and reaching _Elysian_ ’s distress call. Arthur finds Sean before the sun rises. He’d been lucky enough to make it into a lifeboat after jumping overboard before watching as this ship rose and fell —a steel giant fighting against the unbreakable pull of the ocean. Now Sean sits across from you on the deck, drinking a cup of hot coffee, his blanket and Arthur’s wrapped around your shoulders. It’s been eight hours since one of the lifeboats came back, pulling you and Arthur from the water —too late to save anyone else— and the chill of the water still has not left your bones. Seeing you shiver, Arthur wraps his arms around you, tucking you in to his chest as he runs his hands up and down your arms and back —lips brushing against your forehead and temple.

Eight days since first departing Southampton, the Statue of Liberty rises from the mist like a beacon. The _Velos_ slows, docking in the same spot it had left from naught three days earlier. Thousands have gathered in the streets around the pier, searching the faces, hopeful to see a familiar face again. 

Among them is your betrothed, Nathanial Cornwall, but your father has already stopped to speak with him —even after four days aboard the _Velos_ , he never did find you among the steerage. It would be easier for him to accept the Atlantic as your resting place than know you lived and would no longer submit to his manipulation. Neither recognizes you as you disembark at Arthur’s side, making your way through the reporters shouting questions and flashing lights of cameras. 

Inside a long warehouse, the survivors gather and slowly trickle back into the world after speaking with the immigration workers and counselors. Soon, you and Arthur have moved up. Next in line behind Sean. “Your names?” The immigration officer asks, holding tight to his clipboard and pen. He’s written the names of too many widows in such a short amount of time. 

“Arthur Morgan,” he answers, wondering how wise it was to be telling a government worker his real name. 

The officer scribbles the name down on the piece of paper, not giving it a second thought. He looks up from the clipboard. “And you?” He asks, thinking there’s something vaguely familiar in your appearance, as though he’s seen you in a newspaper. 

You give the officer your first name, hesitating before speaking your last. Arthur’s arm tightens around your shoulders, the tired smile on his lips and glimmer in his eyes tells you everything will be alright. You’re safe with him. “–Morgan.”


End file.
